One Boy Missing(26)
‘Bullshit, it’s stopped.’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘Jesus, Keith, I’m not about to sue anyone.’
‘I’m not worried about that.’
George smiled. Gallasch realised there was no point wasting any more time. He turned to Moy.
‘Go on,’ Moy said. ‘You can’t win.’
AS THEY CRUISED along Ayr Street, George studied his son’s tie and jacket. ‘Aren’t you hot in all that get up?’
‘No.’
‘You look hot.’
They drove in silence past the locked-up stores. A dog was sniffing posts, lifting his leg and dry-pissing. The community radio station, operating from a shopfront, played music from a speaker on its verandah. Moy could hear the guitar twang and the nasal voice.
Who, Moy wondered, could possibly be listening?
‘You should’ve gone with Keith,’ he said to his father.
‘Why?’
‘He was only trying to help.’
George turned to him. ‘The reason I bring it up,’ he said, ‘is every time you see a detective on the telly he’s wearing a polo top and jeans.’
‘Some, I suppose, if you’re busting into houses and jumping fences. But if you’re just asking questions.’
They passed the empty car park of the Country Target. There were a dozen trolleys left in a sort of Stonehenge arrangement. ‘Then they complain when kids push them in the creek,’ Moy said.
‘Still, you wouldn’t have thought a country copper would need a suit,’ George continued. ‘It’s not like you’re gonna be on telly any time soon.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You always look like you’re off to a funeral.’
Moy slowed, indicated and turned. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he said.
‘Whose?’
‘Guilderton’s.’
George touched the two Band-Aids stretched across his dressing. ‘See. Fine.’
‘You know, you shouldn’t make it difficult for people.’
‘Who?’ George looked at him. ‘You, you mean?’
‘People. Whether it’s you falling, or someone offering to help with the house.’
‘Who?’
‘You told me…that old girl from Foys.’
George crossed his arms. ‘You want me to let her in the house?’
‘Why not, if she’s offered to help?’
‘Help? She just wants to come and stick her nose in.’
Moy stopped at a T-junction and turned to his father. ‘I’ve met her. She’s not like that at all.’
‘She’s a gossip. Like the old thing next door. How are you today, George? Fine, Thea.’
Moy studied his father’s face as the words trailed off. ‘Not everyone’s a pain in the arse, Dad.’
He drove off. ‘The thing is, Dad, you’re not getting any younger, are you?’
George looked at him strangely.
‘With everything going on…with your balance. Your old legs.’
‘Nothin’ wrong with my legs.’
‘What, the ground moved?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, Detective.’
‘Dad…you’re getting older. You’re gonna have to swallow your pride occasionally.’
No reply; more feeling around on his forehead.
‘Admit you may need help. Or else it’ll just be…’
‘What?’
‘It’ll just be me.’
‘So?’
This time Moy didn’t reply.
‘Well? You came back to look after me, didn’t you?’ George said.
‘Of course.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve got work too.’
‘Everyone’s got work. Doesn’t mean you can’t look after your old man.’
Moy was shaking his head. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t.’
‘It’s an inference. Get some help or I’ll put you in that fucking nursing home.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘I don’t want to put you in a nursing home.’
‘But you would.’
Moy bit his lip and looked at his father. ‘That’s why I sold up, and moved here, was it? To put you in a nursing home?’
George dropped his head. ‘You started the conversation.’
‘You fell over.’
‘So fucking what?’ the old man shouted.
They sat in the car, in front of George’s house.
‘Thing you forget is that I’m happy here,’ George said, looking at what was left of his garden.
Moy just looked ahead. ‘I didn’t mention the nursing home.’
‘Well, you have before.’ His head fell back onto the padded rest and he said, ‘You can’t make a fella do what he doesn’t want to.’